


My English Rose

by aderyn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anniversaries, Bruises, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Marriage, Pining, Rings, Wistful English gardens, cases, just a bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-08 00:53:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1920537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aderyn/pseuds/aderyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is not an English garden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My English Rose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ScienceofObsession](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScienceofObsession/gifts).



> Flowers and rings to the lovely [Science](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ScienceofObsession/pseuds/ScienceofObsession), on her birthday.

 

Sherlock is not an English garden, a clutch of sweet peas and hybrid teas in a summer shower. He's a wayside herb, prickly in the cracks of the green and pleasant land. That’s it, John thinks. The train carries them to the countryside. The collar-up coat shines in the afternoon like the pelt of a seal in a cold sea. Like old times. It rains.

*****

“How long have you been married?”

“We're not..." John says, stops.

The band glimmers on his finger. Sherlock's hand, like-banded, twines in his. 

"A year today," Sherlock says, smiles the true smile, "it's been very happy."

Their client blinks, flashes a smile back. Shamming married gets her to implicate her brother, who’s stashed the blade in a pinwheeled flowerpot.

The skies clear like blinking a tear. Case closed.

*****

“We're not even injured!”  John says, giggles unbecoming, “not even a bruise!”

“Yes well,” Sherlock says, flicks a petal from his sleeve, “marriage is good for one or two things.”

"One year," John says, “today.”

He might have said Sherlock's hands were wistful, taking his then, turning him once, playful, turning him twice to the memory of a wedding waltz, not theirs, not exactly.

“Stay the night, Sherlock,” Mary says, brushes rain from his shoulders, “Baker Street’ll wait.”

“Yes, stay,” John says.

He might. He might slip instead into the salts and stars, come up again at dawn.

No sort of flower but the bud.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Paul Weller](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4RMiY7PWcQg).


End file.
